


Mile Marker Extras

by frankiesin



Series: Say It With Neon [20]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Emo culture, Ficlet dump, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Multi, Not at the same time, Post-split panic, Ryan Ross: Scene Queen, Spoilers and all that Fun Stuff, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 21:45:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13749837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankiesin/pseuds/frankiesin
Summary: A dump of the Mile Marker 17 ficlets I've written in math class instead of doing math. (Don't yell at me; it's a very easy and slow-moving class so I'm not missing much)





	Mile Marker Extras

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: some of these ficlets take place post-split and contain spoilers for chapters of WSYICT/the third part of MM17 that I haven't posted yet. If you're like me, and don't care too much about spoilers because you're a thirsty ho and will take any content, carry on. If you're not and you do care about spoilers, don't read anything dated after 2009. 
> 
> (As I update the actual series, I'll change the warning so it's still accurate)
> 
> Enjoy what I do instead of math!

**March 9, 2004; Summerlin, Nevada.**

 

“If you were gonna fuck any member of My Chem, who would you pick?” Ryan asked. She and Spencer were upstairs in his room and sitting on either end of his bed. Ryan had her computer with her, and was updating her LiveJournal fics again. 

 

Spencer sat up and rested his elbows on his knees. “Uh, Gerard. I think. What about you? Who would you fuck?”

 

“Gerard as well,” she said, and glanced over at the notebook she had open beside her. It was supposed to be her math notes from class, but Ryan was taking a ridiculously easy math course this year, and so she spent the entire class writing out fic ideas. Spencer thought it was hilarious. The teacher hadn’t caught on yet, either. Ryan smirked to herself. “Where else am I going to find a goth boyfriend?”

 

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “...the internet.”

 

Ryan glared at him through her bangs. “No.”

 

“What?” Spencer said, biting back a laugh. “That’s where you found Jon.”

 

“Jon’s not goth,” Ryan said. She rolled her eyes and went back to typing. Spencer didn’t bother asking her who she was writing about this time. He knew it involved Pete Wentz. 

 

Spencer frowned. “How do you know that?”

 

“I’ve seen his face,” she said. 

 

Spencer frowned harder. Jon was some weirdo from the internet, and not only was Ryan dating him, but she’d seen his fucking face? Why did she trust him so easily? “You’ve seen his  _ face _ ?”

 

“Yeah,” Ryan said. She looked up, and noticed that Spencer was giving her one of his bitch face looks. Ryan sighed. “We’ve skyped, dude. It’s not like I’m taking mystery trips to Chicago on the weekends to hang out with my boyfriend.”

 

“You’re not, like, sending nudes or anything, are you?” Spencer said. He’d heard about girls who did that. They’d send nudes to guys to try and impress them, and then their boobs would end up on a porn site somewhere and the guy would scam them if they asked to have the boobs taken down. 

 

Ryan rolled her eyes. “I don’t send nudes. I’m a classy lady.”

 

“...sure,” Spencer said. 

 

“I am.”

 

“Again, sure,” Spencer said. He sighed. “Just be careful, okay? I know you’re your own person and all that, but I worry about you sometimes.”

 

“Don’t worry about this,” Ryan said. She smiled. “I know what I’m doing.”

 

* * *

 

**June 9, 2014; Summerlin, Las Vegas.**

 

She walked in wearing Doc Martens and a leather vest over her t-shirt. The world stopped for her. Rochelle wasn’t sure how to react, or if she was supposed to react at all. This was her old high school, back in Vegas, but things were different now. Everyone was grown up, and she didn’t recognise half of the people here. It was 2014 and Rochelle was a different person. 

 

She doubted that anyone could recognise her either. She was in a band that loved her, had a husband and two kids that loved her more, and the world knew who she was. The people who had harassed her as a teenager now worked in business offices and wore suits. She’d gotten the American dream and they were stuck with the leftovers. 

 

Rochelle took a deep breath and moved into the room. People were staring, but it wasn’t at Ryan Ross, the weird tranny kid. They were staring at Rochelle Ross-Walker, fucking awesome rockstar. She wondered how many of them were confused by her presence. 

 

She walked up to the two women behind the welcome booth and smiled. “Hey, I’m here for the reunion?”

 

“Oh, um,” one of the women stuttered out. Rochelle recognised her, barely, from ninth grade. She and Brent had dated for about a month before Brent tried to cheat on her and she got pissed and dumped his ass. Rochelle liked her, even though she couldn’t remember her name. The woman had short, bleached blonde hair now, and tucked a strand behind her ear. “What, ah, what’s your--”

 

“Not to be rude, but aren’t you in Panic! at the Disco?” the other woman asked. She was wearing her name badge, which read  _ Heather Rohen _ . 

 

“Yeah,” Rochelle said. To the other woman, “My last name’s Ross-Walker, hyphenated. And I don’t know if you guys updated my first name or not.”

 

The first woman picked up a nametag and looked it over. She looked up at Rochelle with her eyebrows furrowed, and that answered Rochelle’s question. The woman turned it over. “I’m guessing your name isn’t Ryan?”

 

“It’s Rochelle,” she said, smiling. Her dead name didn’t hurt as much now as it would have five years ago. “I used to be Ryan Ross, but it’s been a while since anyone called me that.”

 

Heather’s eyes widened, as did the other woman (Rochelle got a glimpse of her nametag:  _ Maya _ ), and Rochelle just smiled again. Maya’s hand went to her mouth. “You’re--oh my God, you don’t look like Ryan at all. No way.”

 

“You don’t look like you did in high school either,” Rochelle said. She could have been really mean then, and said something about Maya being skinnier then, or having better hair or makeup or literally anything, but she was an adult and she didn’t need to insult these people. She’d proven herself with her talent, and these guys meant shit to her now. Rochelle wasn’t here for revenge; she was here to let them know that they were wrong about her. 

 

“Oh my God,” Heather said. “You do not look like you used to be a guy.”

 

“You’re really testing my patience,” Rochelle said, because she had a snappy remark but she was trying to be the mature one here. She took her nametag and rubbed the name Ryan off, replacing it with Rochelle. “See you around, I guess.”

 

* * *

 

**March 19, 2010; London, England.**

 

Panic! at the Disco didn’t create the pop punk genre. They didn’t have to. They changed how everyone saw music and it made me feel like I could be myself and still make it in the punk scene. My friends think the band is trash because they went mainstream, but my friends are all pretty damn elitist when it comes to music. We all like most of the same music shit, and getting thrown around in the pit, but they care about having the most spikes on their jacket more than I do. I’m in it for the music and the movement, not the attire. 

I’ve been a fan of Panic! at the Disco since their first album came out in the Fall of 2005. I didn’t like their second album as much, but I still saw them at the Glastonbury festival in 2008. Their first album meant a lot to me because it came out when I was ten years old and had to shave off my hair for the first time because of the trich. It was also the first time I got a crush on a girl. 

 

Panic! at the Disco was raw and angry and gay without being obvious about it, so I could still listen to them with my parents or my friends and no one would ask why I was listening to fag music. Not everyone knew this about the band, but the girl guitarist, Rochelle, was the one who wrote the lyrics. So when Brendon (the singer) was crooning about how a girl cheated on him, it was really about Rochelle’s ex girlfriend from high school. Rochelle was bisexual. The whole band was bisexual except for the bassist, Dallon, who was gay. 

 

Rochelle had married the other guitarist back in July, and that was where things had gotten weird. The wedding was after their last summer show, on a beach, and it was beautiful. Pictures were still circling the internet even though it was March now. Something happened, a day after the wedding, and it resulted in the band splitting. Rochelle and Jon (her husband and the guitarist) moved to Seattle and got a cute little house together. Brendon and Dallon (who’re still dating) moved to LA and started hanging out with the richer pop punkers. And the drummer, Spencer Smith, who’d been dating Brendon and Dallon both before the wedding, disappeared. 

 

No one knows where he went off to, but we all have theories about it. Some make sense (Spencer moving to his parents’ house in the mountains of Colorado to stay away from the questions about his band), and some of them don’t (Spencer was secretly in love with Jon this entire time and offed himself after the wedding and the band was trying to cover it up). 

 

I don’t care too much  _ why _ Spencer disappeared, but I would like to know where he ended up. I figure he dropped off the radar to stay out of the post-split drama. I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up in his family’s Christmas photos whenever they get around to posting them online, but the rest of the world isn’t easily satisfied the way I am. There are Spencer-spotting sites on LiveJournal and MySpace and Twitter, but all of the stories have come out to be bullshit. No one really knows where he is, not even his friend Linda, who used to be the one to show the fans what the band did when they weren’t on stage.

 

We know what the other four members of Panic! at the Disco are doing, because they’re still on Twitter. Spencer’s Twitter hasn’t changed since July, and it still says he’s in the band. I’m not sure there’s even a band left to be in. Brendon and Dallon are doing their own thing with the name now, but they don’t sound like the original. 

 

Linda isn’t on Twitter. She has one, but she’s using it to talk about her new job in LA instead of Panic! at the Disco news. It sucks. I know she doesn’t exist to tell us about the band, but I still want to know what’s happening. 

 

I’m sitting on a train, though, whooshing through the underground tunnels of London and distracting myself with theories about why the band split. My friends were supposed to come with me to a show in south London tonight, but they all decided that a house party would be more fun. So much for being real punks. I’m still going to the show, because I don’t want to go back home and sit alone in my room all night. 

 

The train stops and people get on. One of them is a distressed looking man with a beard, and he takes the seat beside me. I don’t know why. I don’t look very friendly, with my tiny dyed mohawk and heeled boots up to my knees. The man’s hands are shaking and he looks like he’s been crying. He’s white. If I had to guess, I’d say he was in his early twenties. I never know how old people are until they tell me. He’s got tense shoulders and his jacket is falling off of them. He’s shivering a little. 

 

I pull out an earbud and tap him on the shoulder. I don’t want to be next to a white man having a breakdown if he’s going to get violent. “Hey.” 

 

Pause. 

 

He looks up at me and his eyes are so bright blue they’re almost glowing. 

 

“Are you alright?”

 

He laughs a hurt laugh. “No. Thanks for asking, I guess.”

 

He’s American. 

 

“If you want to vent, you can,” I offer. “I’m not going anywhere for a while.”

 

The show doesn’t start for another two hours. I got on the subway because my phone was fully charged and I knew I could listen to music and get over my irritation if I was out of the house for long enough. I want to enjoy this show. I could get off when my stop comes up, and try to get barrier, but I’m small and the band isn’t much bigger than me. I can get to the front even if I show up two minutes before they start. 

 

He sighs, tired, and crosses his legs at the ankles. “Bad break up.”

 

“Oh. That sucks.” I wind the earbud around my finger. “I have an angry breakup playlist.”

 

He raises and eyebrow and it gets lost under his hair. He better not be judging me. I know I look like any other angsty emo fucker, but I’m a lot more than some teenager to laugh at online. I’m being a good fucking person. 

 

I offer the earbud. “If you don’t want to talk about it.”

 

He takes it. “Alright.”

 

I hit next so he doesn’t have to listen to my ex’s demo where she’s screaming about killing men, and Panic! at the Disco comes up. What a coincidence. The universe is trying to tell me something, too, because it’s the song about Rochelle’s cheating ex. The song that made me realise I could be gay and be proud of it. 

 

He seems to think it’s one hell of a coincidence, too, because he starts laughing and covers his mouth. 

 

I frown. “What? Not what you were expecting?”

 

“No,” he says. He keeps the earbud in. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

 

There should be an explanation for that. I wait. 

 

“I remember when Ry told me about this,” he says. He’s got a look on his face now like he’s remembering being a kid and going into secondary school for the first time. Not that he would have secondary school, being American. It’d be high school for him, then, and he’d still feel like he was walking into a brand new world of wonder. 

 

“About the song?” I ask. 

 

“No, when she caught her girlfriend making out with this guy,” he says. 

 

I frown. 

 

He looks at me, worry creeping back into his face. “You’re not… you’re not a fan, are you?”

 

“Of this band?” I ask, and point to my phone. The band isn’t here. It’s not like I can physically point to them. “I am. I saw them in ‘08. I liked the first record.”

 

“Oh, Christ,” he says, and almost pulls the earbud out.

 

“Hey. Don’t shit on Panic! at the Disco. They’re a good fucking band.”

 

“I’m not shitting on them,” he says. He looks around the train car, like a spy making sure the enemy isn’t sitting behind a newspaper and taking notes. “I was in that band.”

 

“You were  _ what _ ?” I sputter out. 

 

I look at him again. Really look at him. I lengthen his hair, make it choppier, like he’d cut it himself. Add some scruffiness to his beard, and imagine him in a t-shirt and a cheap vest instead of the jumper and jacket he’s donning now. I can see it, and he can see that I see it, and I actually slap my arm to make sure this is real. 

 

“Don’t… don’t scream,” he says. He puts his hands up like I’m a feral cat and he’s just trying to take me in out of the rain. 

 

“Holy shit,” I whisper. I look around. There are no cameras. “You’re--”

 

“I am,” Spencer says. That’s confirmation. I’ve stumbled across a man who’s been missing for almost a year and I didn’t even plan to. I shouldn’t have crossed paths with him either, because I wouldn’t have left my house yet if my friends hadn’t all flaked on me and pissed me off. The universe was trying to tell me something, and now it has, and I’ve solved the best damn mystery in all of pop punk history. 

 

And I can’t tell anyone. 

 

I can see it in his face, that he’s been hiding, and that I’m his worst fear. Meeting a fan, having that fan recognise him, and accidentally outing himself as  _ the _ Spencer Smith from Panic! at the Disco. 

 

“I won’t tell anyone,” I say. I have to say it. I mean it, of course, because I’m not a God damn snitch, but I still have to say it. 

 

“Thanks,” he says. He looks up at the station map posted above our heads. “And thanks for the music, too.”

 

He stands up, and hands me my earbud back, and I stand up with him. Spencer looks at me, and I try to think of something brilliant to say, because this is a man I’ve looked up to for a while. He’s in an openly gay band. He’s been open about his bisexuality, and being polyamorous, and he’s just… he’s a charming man, even though I’m not into men. I have to at least say  _ something _ . 

 

“Wait,” I say. The train stops. I have ten seconds before the doors close. “Do you want to go to a show with me?”

 

He stares at me for two of those seconds. People are leaving the train. “What kind of show?”

 

“Local band. Punk, loud,” I say. “Not… not your level of skill, but fun. I’ve seen them before.”

 

He looks out of the train. Three seconds. He leans back in. “Yeah. Sure. My roommate thinks I’m on a date anyway. Might as well try to salvage this evening.”

 

The doors close. I relax. Spencer doesn’t. He’s still tense, and now we’re standing because a bunch of people have come in and stolen our seats. I don’t know if I can still ask him about the break up, or how bad it was. This isn’t a random white man sitting beside me on a train anymore. This is Spencer  _ fucking _ Smith, who used to be in a rock band and knows all the answers to the internet’s questions. 

 

I kick the pole we’re holding onto. “So. Bad break up?”

 

“Very bad,” he confirms. 

 

“Want me to kick…” I trail off. I have absolutely no idea if it was a guy or a girl.

 

“His?”

 

“Right. Thanks,” I say, and nod. “Want me to kick his ass?”

 

“Maybe,” Spencer says. He doesn’t look sure about it. He looks like he doesn’t want to talk about it at all, really. “I don’t know if it’s worth it. I don’t want to see his face right now.”

 

“Well. Never mind that then,” I say. “We can get better seats this way.”

 

He smiles. Okay. So I’ve made a good choice, and now I’m going to see a punk show with a famous rock star. I hope all of my friends feel like shit for choosing that house party now. Of course, I can’t tell them, either, because I promised Spencer I’d keep my mouth shut about where he is. The knowledge will have to be enough for now. 

 

* * *

 

**August 30, 2001; Provo, Utah.**

 

The dorm room was tiny and Dallon already felt out of place. It didn’t help that he was two years older than everyone else in the dorm hall, aside from a few other guys with short hair and nice clothes who’d also clearly just come off mission. He felt like an old man walking into a night club, and he’d never even been to a nightclub. He’d considered it, over the summer, but he didn’t want to risk getting caught by his parents. 

 

He had the next four years to figure out the whole gay and Mormon thing. Dallon didn’t have to rush this. 

 

“Are you my roommate?” a voice said over Dallon’s shoulder. He turned around, expecting to see a guy with short hair and a button-down shirt standing in the doorway, but was instead greeted by… a goth dude. 

 

Dallon frowned. “I… are you in the right college?”

 

The guy laughed. “I get that a lot. And yeah, I am. My dad’s a professor at Utah State and I didn’t want to be the teacher’s kid. And this place gives good scholarships, so, hey, why not?”

 

It wasn’t the weirdest explanation. Dallon stuck his hand out. “Well, hi, then. I guess I am your roommate. I’m Dallon Weekes, by the way. I’m from Las Vegas.”

 

“Dude, nice,” the guy said, grinning. “I’m Ryan Seaman, from Eagle Mountain. It’s a tiny town south of SLC. Kind of boring, but cheap houses and there are a bunch of elementary schools around there. My mom’s a district coordinator.”

 

“My parents have boring, non-education jobs,” Dallon said. 

 

“That’s fine,” Ryan said. He shrugged and dropped his bags onto the other bed. “I just have to explain things because people never understand why we live out in the middle of nowhere if my dad’s a college professor.”

 

He sat down on the bed and flipped his hair away from his face. It almost came down to his shoulders, and it was jet black. “So. If you’re from Vegas, what’re you doing all the way up here?”

 

_ I thought it would be the least suspicious place to start looking for a boyfriend _ , Dallon thought. He sat down on his own bed and was disappointed by how uncomfortable it was under his butt. “I’m Mormon. Not, like, super strict or anything, but enough to want to be around people who wouldn’t look at me weird for it.”

 

“I won’t look at you weird for being Mormon with a bad haircut if you don’t look at me weird for not being Mormon and still having a bad haircut,” Ryan said. 

 

Dallon laughed. “Sure.”

 

“Sweet,” Ryan said, and fist-bumped Dallon. So maybe this whole college thing wouldn’t be too bad. It couldn’t be worse than his partner on his mission in Oklahoma, after all.

 

* * *

 

**March 4, 2010; Los Angeles, California.**

 

Ryan liked Groundwork Coffee. The blueberry muffins had a lot to do with it, but it was also right across the street from the CNN office, so sometimes he got to hear weird news stories from the business people who sat next to him. He didn’t stick out in Los Angeles the way he always had in Utah, and it was nice. He heard a lot more stories and gossip that way. 

 

There was also a cute redhead who would give Ryan free coffee sometimes, and that made Ryan want to come in more. Free stuff was nice, even though he could afford his own apartment in LA. The barista’s name was Giselle, and when she wasn’t making coffee she was a photographer and working her way through beauty school. Ryan hadn’t figured out if she talked to him because she liked him, or if he was just less annoying than the CNN people. He assumed it was the latter, because he didn’t want to be one of those creepy dudes who hit on girls while they were at work. 

 

He wasn’t a fucking Radke, basically. 

 

Ryan was on his lunch break, which was really a brunch break. He worked at 98.7 in the morning and early afternoon, and then mingled with the bands they played at night. It was awesome, even if he didn’t get to play in the bands as much as he wanted to. He got a thirty minute break for food, which usually extended a little extra, but no one cared because Ryan knew the most about local bands and so he was valuable. 

 

He looked up from his coffee and muffin at the two people in line right in front of them. The shorter one was obviously a dude, with short, dark brown hair styled up in a quiff thing and hipster glasses. The other person could have been a guy, or a girl, or neither for all Ryan knew. They were wearing a sleeveless silver leather jacket over a black dress, and converse. They looked good, but Ryan could not figure out if they were going for guy or girl with the look. 

 

Hipster glasses looked over his shoulder and made a face at Ryan, and Ryan smiled because he had no time for being a dick to strangers. Hipster glasses made another face and turned to his friend, tapping him on the shoulder. 

 

Ryan winced. Shit. He’d probably been giving leather jacket person the same look, and now the two of them thought Ryan was an asshole. 

 

Leather jacket turned around, and Ryan stared because he knew that face. He’d played in a band with that face, years ago, when they were both younger and had shittier haircuts and thought that all they needed to be famous was a van and some gear. Ryan dropped the piece of muffin he’d picked off. “Dallon?”

 

“Ryan?” Dallon echoed back, equally surprised. 

 

Hipster glasses frowned. “You guys know each other?”

 

Dallon ducked under the line rope and Ryan got up to go hug the guy. Who might not be a guy. Whoops. Ryan grinned into Dallon’s shoulder. “Holy shit, I haven’t seen you in forever! What’s up?”

 

“Well, I’m in a different band now, so that’s a thing,” Dallon said. He pulled back from Ryan and seemed to realise what exactly he was wearing and how he and Ryan hadn’t talked in almost ten years. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Oh. Um, I should probably explain, uh… this.”

 

“It’s whatever, dude,” Ryan said. He swallowed. “Can I still call you dude? Or…?”

 

“You can call me dude,” Dallon said. He pointed over his shoulder at hipster glasses. “Brendon does it all the time.”

 

“So is the dress…?” Ryan didn’t know how to ask, and he didn’t want to sound like a dumbass doing it. “Shit, this is gonna be awkward but do you go by like, she or whatever? I’ve never had to do this before.”

 

“I’ve had to do it a lot, so don’t worry,” Dallon said. “And I use they and them.”

 

Ryan nodded. “Okay. I can remember that.”

 

“So what have you been up to?” Dallon said. Ryan knew they weren’t asking about the Brobecks, because it was pretty clear that that band never made it out of Utah. It sucked, but Dallon dropping out, or getting kicked out, or whatever had really happened… it had fucked with the band. Ryan didn’t know where the other members were now, because he’d lost track of them over the years, and he could only account for himself. 

 

He sighed. “Well, a lot. The Brobecks didn’t work out, and then I graduated and ended up in a band led by a douchebag, and now I work for a radio station. Which isn’t as bad as I was afraid it would be when I first got hired.”

 

“Sorry about the band,” Dallon said. 

 

“It happens,” Ryan said, shrugging. “Some things just aren’t meant to work out.”

 

Dallon laughed, but it was a little hollow. “Yeah, tell me about it. Brendon and I are still trying to figure out where to go from here.”

 

“Did… should I know what’s going on?” Ryan asked, looking over Dallon’s shoulder at Brendon, who was still in line and still looking at Ryan like he didn’t fully trust the guy. Ryan looked back at Dallon. “You’re not, like, homeless or anything, are you?”

 

Dallon shook their head. “No. But our band kind of split off last summer and we promised the label we’d have an album for them in the fall but we can’t figure it out and we’re still short a drummer and a guitar--” Dallon cut themself off and punched Ryan in the arm, “--you’re a drummer!”

 

“I am.”

 

Dallon grinned. “Do you want to, maybe, whenever we have something to go on tour with, go on tour with us? I mean, I know you’ve got your own life but…”

 

“That’d be awesome,” Ryan said, grinning back at them. He’d never been on tour with Dallon, because Dallon had disappeared before the Brobecks had anything to tour with. Ryan didn’t care what kind of music Dallon and Brendon’s new band made. He’d drum for them even if their music was weird bird calls. Ryan glanced down at his watch. “Shit. I have to get back, but can I give you my number? We can catch up for real later and figure shit out?”

 

“Hell yeah,” Dallon said, and pulled out their phone. 

 

* * *

 

**December 20, 2009; Vail, Colorado.**

 

The name Rochelle came to her years before she really decided on it. No one, not Jon, not even Spencer, knew that she wanted to be Rochelle. She refused to even call herself that until she changed her name legally because she was afraid that saying it out loud would ruin it for her.

 

She didn’t know what the name meant until many years later, when she came across a fan made edit of her and her (former) band members. 

 

_ Rochelle: from the French city La Rochelle, meaning little rock. Alexa: from Alexandra, meaning defender of mankind.  _

 

Rochelle appreciated that. She’d chosen her name because of how it sounded, and how it made her feel. It was good to know that she hadn’t named herself unwanted daughter or something like that. She didn’t see her as a defender of mankind, but she did buy into the Gerard Way philosophy of music saving lives. Even if she didn’t have Panic! anymore, she could still write music and she could still help people feel better about who they were.

 

She’d been looking at baby names a lot during the past few weeks. She and Jon weren’t sure when, but they were planning to adopt or have a surrogate child eventually. They owned a house, and they had two cats and a puppy, and they were married. Parenthood was the next logical step. 

 

Jon was not an only child. His parents had divorced when he was three, and both of them had remarried by the time he was in middle school. He had two younger half-siblings, and he got along with both of them, but he wasn’t angry with either of his parents for splitting up. He wasn’t scared by divorce the way Rochelle was. 

 

Jon’s parents still talked to each other, and they all lived in Chicago. Jon was raised by his mom and his step-dad, but he spent his summers with his dad, step-mom, and step-siblings, and to him, it was just normal to have an expansive family. Rochelle’s parents weren’t like that. She had no idea where her mother was, and she hadn’t seen her since she was eight. She didn’t think that would ever change. Rochelle’s mother had made it very clear how she felt about Rochelle and her dad. 

 

Rochelle wasn’t okay with how her mom had handled things, but it wasn’t like she could find her mom and make her explain herself. She just had to live knowing that sometimes people weren’t meant to be parents. 

 

It was a week until Christmas. Rochelle and Jon were going to visit Spencer’s parents in their house in Colorado. They’d left their pets with their neighbours, and were driving up through the mountains from the Denver airport. Rochelle hadn’t seen or spoken to Spencer since July. She’d tried to text him a few times, but he never responded and Rochelle had given up on that. Everything she knew about Spencer came from Linda now. 

 

Linda had also been invited to the Smith’s for the holidays. She wasn’t on speaking terms with her parents, because they were still being homophobic little shits about their daughter. Rochelle wanted to take a plane to El Paso and tell the Ignarro’s that they were making one hell of a mistake by rejecting Linda. They were going to lose their daughter, and they were eventually going to regret it. 

 

Spencer’s dad, Jeff, had picked them up at the airport so that they wouldn’t have to rent a car or wait for the mountain pass bus to come get them. It was cold outside, but not snowing, thankfully, so the ride out to Vail wasn’t dangerous. Jon had taken the front seat, since he was always more talkative after a plane ride, and Rochelle was in the back, listening to the classic rock radio fade in and out. 

 

She loved the Smith’s mountain house. She’d loved their old house in Vegas as well, but that house was more like a shelter than a real home to her. This house, nestled against the ski slopes and done up to look like a cabin, was like a fantasy. If Rochelle and Jon had gone the same direction as Brendon and Dallon and sold out, they could have gotten a house like this up in the woods of Washington. They didn’t, though, because they weren’t flashy, but they weren’t the ones missing out on Christmas. 

 

Brendon and Dallon were probably getting drunk at some music industry party right about now. Rochelle tried not to think about how unfair it was that the two of them got to keep the name and the label, even though Panic! at the Disco had never been their band to start with. 

 

“In an alternate universe, I’d make one hell of a ski bum,” Jon mused, pulling Rochelle out of her thoughts. 

 

“You have the beard for it,” Rochelle said. Both of them had turned out pretty hippie after the split. The house in Seattle had a bohemian feel to it as well, and there was a lot of weed going on. It was probably a good thing that they weren’t actively looking to adopt. Someone would have complained about Jon and Rochelle being potheads, even though they weren’t. 

 

It was a lot more fun to write while stoned. Rochelle could probably still create shit if she was on heroin, but she didn’t want to find out. She was a writer before anything else, and there was nothing in the world that could stop her from getting her ideas out of her head and making them sound like something good. 

 

“You could be one of the snow bunnies,” Jon said, laughing as he grabbed his suitcase and headed inside. 

 

Rochelle rolled her eyes. “As if. If you’re getting the full experience, then so am I.”

 

She knew that she didn’t look like the other girl skiers out there. They looked like paler surfer girls, or ex-varsity softball queens. Rochelle looked like she’d walked out of Woodstock and accidentally stumbled into the 21st century. She didn’t ski like that, though. Skiing was one of the only sports Rochelle could do without looking like an absolute dumbass. 

 

Jackie, Crystal, and Ginger came back from the slopes while Rochelle and Jon were unpacking into their room, and Ginger made everyone some apple cider while the girls showered. Linda had flown in that morning, but she hadn’t gotten her gear yet because she was going to go with Rochelle and Jon. 

 

Rochelle raised her eyebrows when Linda walked in. “Nice haircut.”

 

“I thought I’d go for something new,” Linda said, and then blinked a bunch of times to get her bangs out of her eyes. They were long, and shaggy, and they looked strange on her. Rochelle was so used to Linda looking like a California girl, and now she was pale and her hair was a soft blonde instead of the usual harsh bleach colour. 

 

“It’s new,” Jon said. Rochelle kicked him in the ankle. Jon frowned. “Ow. I didn’t say it was bad, just that it was new.”

 

“I don’t think I’m keeping the bangs,” Linda said. “I just don’t know what to do with them for now.”

 

“Hair clips are your best friend,” Rochelle said. She’d been growing out her bangs for the past six months, and they were finally long enough to tuck behind her ears. “That and headbands. They’re magical, I promise.”

 

Linda smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

* * *

 

**December 31, 2014; Vail, Colorado.**

 

It was warm inside. Spencer could hear Dallon’s music drifting in from the kitchen. He and Mikey were on one side of the couch, and Brendon and his fiancee were on the other. Spencer wasn’t paying attention to what everyone else was talking about, because he was more focused on the song. After all these years, Dallon’s taste in music had finally started to grow on him. He’d put up with the 80’s music for years, but he was genuinely starting to like it now, and he didn’t know how he felt about that. 

 

Josh was on one of the other couched, hunched over and listening while Rochelle’s kids explained their new favourite game to him. Spencer wasn’t jealous of Josh. Spencer had had his second chance with Dallon, and he’d fucked it up. He was old enough now to know that he could still be in love with Dallon without wanting (or needing) to be with him. Spencer wanted Dallon to be happy. Spencer was a (barely) recovered alcoholic and Josh was a wide-eyed, charming man. He made Dallon happy without any unnecessary baggage, and Spencer couldn’t do that. Josh was who Dallon deserved. 

 

Dallon poked their head out of the kitchen. “Hey, B, wanna help me get everything out here?”

 

Brendon sunk down in his seat, mimicking a five year old being told to go to bed. Brittany pulled him against her chest and away from Mikey and Spencer. “He’s comfortable. Get someone else.”

 

Dallon looked annoyed for a second before Spencer stood up. Josh was occupied with being a cool uncle and keeping the kids from falling asleep before midnight, and Rochelle and Jon were switching off with who got to watch the baby. Spencer wasn’t about to make Mikey do anything, either, since he was the reason Mikey was here in the first place. 

 

Spencer grabbed Brendon around the waist and pulled him up off the couch. Brendon squeaked, and Spencer laughed, and Jon snapped a picture of the two of them so that the internet would know that Brendon was still a fucking child sometimes. Brendon flailed around as Spencer carried him across the living room, and Spencer tried not to drop him while laughing. 

 

The song had Robert Smith in it, which sucked. Spencer had heard enough of that man’s whining while growing up with Rochelle. She had been an angsty teenager, and she listened to a lot of angsty music. Spencer had been angsty, too, but not at the level of Rochelle. 

 

He placed Brendon down as the song went into the chorus. Brendon turned around in Spencer’s arms and he was  _ smiling _ at him. His cheeks were tinted pink and his eyes were shining like snow in the night, and he was beautiful. Spencer froze. His mind was telling him to kiss the living shit out of Brendon, but he couldn’t, because Brendon was in love with a girl sitting out in the next room, and they were getting married in a few months, and Spencer was done fucking up his exes lives. 

 

“I’ll be--I have to go,” Spencer said, because he couldn’t be around either of them. Fuck. He was in love with them both, still, after all these years of the universe telling him to get the hell over it. He walked outside, with no coat or anything, just himself and his shirt and jeans and shoes, and wrapped his arms around his body. 

 

Spencer shivered, and he could feel tears on his cheeks. Being in love wasn’t supposed to hurt, but this did, and he was in love, and he was a fucking idiot. He didn’t know what to do, with himself or in general. There wasn’t an easy answer for any of this. 

 

He heard the door open and quickly rubbed his face. 

 

“You wanna talk about it?” Mikey asked. He lit a cigarette and didn’t ask Spencer if he wanted one. 

 

Spencer shook his head. “I’m an idiot.”

 

“We both are,” Mikey said. “I think that’s why we’re here.”

 

“Being in love sucks ass,” Spencer said, because he wanted to talk about it but he didn’t think Mikey was the right one to do it with. Mikey ran away from people when he realised he was in love with them. He’d done it with Gabe when they were teenagers, and then with Pete in 2005, and then again with Alicia after they’d gotten married. Mikey was not the person to ask. 

 

“I know,” Mikey said. He looked over his shoulder, at everyone inside. Everyone else had figured the whole love and romance and relationship thing out except for the two of them, and now they were standing out alone in the cold on New Years. 

 

“You’re kind of a dick,” Spencer said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I get why Pete wrote all those songs about you, now.”

 

“You don’t have to repeat my mistakes, you know,” Mikey said, and blew out smoke. “I’m not trying to be anyone’s role model.”

 

Spencer shook his head. He knew Mikey was trying, and that they were both trying, but it wasn’t easy. Brendon was getting married, and Dallon was falling for Josh, and both of them were so much happier without Spencer being a part of them. He knew it was selfish, but he wanted to go back to before the split, and before everything had gone to shit. He wanted to be nineteen, and young and naive and in love, and thinking there was nothing that could stop the three of them from being together. 

 

* * *

 

**March 29, 2010; Los Angeles, California.**

 

_ hey linda im in the states _

_ wait since when? where in the states? la? _

_ no. _

_ vail. im with my mom and dad right now. things  _

_ w/ gavin didn’t end well and i had to leave  _

_ london _

_ shit. _

_ does gwyn know what happened or?? did things end ok _

_ with the two of you?? _

_ yeah. things are ok b/w us _

_ and do i need to call in sick to go have a nice long chat _

_ with gavin _

_ no. _

_ sure? _

_ yeah. _

_ so what’s your plan then? _

_ i’m going to seattle. i have to talk to ry and  _

_ jon. i have to apologise _

_ okay _

_ let me know if you ever need anything. you know i’ve got  _

_ your back, right? _

_ for anything. _

_ i know. _

_ thanks linda _

_ any time _

 

* * *

 

**January 19, 2004; Chicago, Illinois.**

 

Jon wasn’t sure how Joe always managed to find him on campus. U of Chicago was huge, and Joe didn’t go to school there, so he wasn’t used to it. Joe was magic, apparently, so he always managed to find Jon, even when Jon was hidden away between buildings or in unused classrooms that most students didn’t even think to check. 

 

They didn’t meet up in some abandoned classroom this time, though. They were in Jon’s dorm room, but Joe had been there first and Jon didn’t ask how he’d gotten in. He knew it hadn’t been his roommate. Jon’s roommate was a boring dude who actually followed the campus rules about not letting outsiders into the dorms. Jon locked the door behind himself and joined Joe on the floor. The good news was that Joe had a can of Pringles. The bad news was that he didn’t have any weed. 

 

“What’re you doing here?” Jon asked. He popped open the can of Pringles. 

 

“You have a girlfriend,” Joe said. He leaned forward, resting his face in the palms of his hands and smiling at Jon like he knew all of the younger man’s secrets. “Who is it? A groupie? Some kind of artsy hipster?”

 

Jon stared at him for a moment with his hand still in the Pringles can. “...I don’t have a girlfriend.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Pretty damn sure,” Jon said. He hadn’t gone on a serious date with anyone since he and Cassie had broken up. It had been a little over a year since they ended things, and while Jon had moved on, he wasn’t interested in anyone in particular. 

 

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Boyfriend?”

 

“Also no,” Jon said. He’d almost forgotten that Joe knew he was bisexual. The two boys had made out once, about a month after Jon and Cassie broke up. Joe wasn’t sure if he was gay or if he just looked up to Pete  _ a lot _ , and so he and Jon had gotten stoned and tested things out. Jon knew he was into guys and girls both, so he was willing to be Joe’s experiment. The conclusion was that Joe was straight and that Joe did not want to kiss him ever again. 

 

It wasn’t that Joe had been a bad kisser. He knew what he was doing. It just felt weird to kiss Joe after knowing the guy for years, and Jon had felt like he was kissing his brother, not his friend. 

 

“You’re lying,” Joe said. He took the Pringles can back. “Jon, there is  _ no way _ you’re single. You’re smiling all the time, and you’re never at any of our shows, and you’re always online. I know you’ve got a LiveJournal, and I know you use it to write shit, but there’s no reason to constantly be on it unless you’re waiting for someone else to get online.”

 

“I’m in a band, Joe,” Jon said. “I’m doing updates and stuff.”

 

“You’re not really in a band,” Joe said. Jon punched him in the arm even though he knew Joe was right. 504 Plan had kind of died out after everyone went off to their different colleges. They’d played together over the break, but it didn’t look like the band would hold on for much longer. 

 

“Okay, so it’s not band stuff, but I’m not dating anyone either,” Jon said. He didn’t want to admit that the reason he was on LiveJournal so much was because of some girl from Nevada who wrote really good fanfiction about Pete Wentz and either Andy Hurley or Mikey Way of My Chem. Joe was in a band with Pete and Andy, and a few years ago, when Joe had just been a fan of Arma, the two of them had actually gone through LiveJournal’s fanfiction section and made fun of the few Pete/Andy fics out there. 

 

Joe would never let Jon live it down if he found out that Jon was helping someone write fanfiction now. Jon wanted to keep some of his dignity in tact. 

 

“So what is it, then?” Joe asked, and handed the Pringles back. “Because you’ve got the hots for someone, at the very least.”

 

Jon rolled his eyes, and didn’t think about how excited he’d been when Ryan gave him her Skype name over break so they could chat face to face. It was dumb. He didn’t have a crush on a scene queen fangirl on the other side of the country. That would be dumb, and also something right out of one of Ryan’s fanfictions. 

 

“You do,” Joe said, laughing. “Holy shit, who is it?”

 

“You wouldn’t know her,” Jon said. He focused really hard on the Pringles and ignored how his face was heating up.

 

“You don’t know that. I’m in a band now. I know a lot of people,” Joe said. 

 

Jon looked at him. He looked more excited than sneaky, which meant he was just curious and wasn’t about to go spreading the word to all of their mutual friends that Jon was a sap with a crush on a girl he hadn’t met in person yet.

 

He didn’t actually have a crush on Ryan, though. He just thought she was funny and creative and had cute hair. He also knew that she’d seen Fall Out Boy and Arma Angelus multiple times, and had met everyone in Fall Out Boy at least once. So she knew Joe, and Joe might remember her. That was dangerous, because if she saw them again, then Joe would bring it up, and Jon didn’t want to get involved in all of that. 

 

He sighed. “She’s a scene girl, okay?”

 

“What’s her name?” Joe asked, and wiggled his eyebrows.

 

“Ryan Razorblade,” Jon said, and it felt as weird coming out of his mouth as it had Ryan’s when she told him on Skype a month ago. “But she usually just goes by Ry.”

 

“You’ve got a thing for a girl named Ryan?” Joe said. Jon didn’t change his expression. Yes, Ryan was a transgender girl. No, it didn’t fucking matter. It wasn’t Joe’s business, either, and unless Ryan told him herself, Jon wasn’t going to do it for her. Joe shrugged. “Alright. I guess. Have you met this Ryan Razorblade yet?”

 

“Dude, just call her Ry, it sounds weird otherwise,” Jon said. “And no, I haven’t. She lives on the other side of the country.”

 

Joe winced. “Oh, dude, that sucks.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Hey, if you can be our tech this summer, maybe you’ll get to meet her,” Joe said. 

 

Jon shrugged. He didn’t think it would happen. Meeting Ryan would be awesome, but it didn’t seem realistic. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave a comment/kudos if you enjoyed this look into what I do when I'm not working on what I should be working on, and feel free to say hi to me on tumblr @celluloidzero or on twitter @the_jeffcolins!


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